Objection Overruled (5 page)

“Now. Counselor,” the judge boomed, his face the color of beets.

She obeyed and shot a glimpse at Stone. He sat back, relaxed, his manicured fingers resting on the table in front of him. The gold of his wedding band glinted.

Jackie shook with rage. He couldn’t commit to her after seven years of dating but sprinted to the altar less than six months after they broke up.

Good riddance to him.

At the bench, the judge tidied the papers in front of him. “Trial goes on as scheduled in six weeks. My docket is full, and this case has dragged on long enough. I strongly suggest the parties reconsider settlement.”

Stone stood. “Your Honor, I expect to have the name of the substitute witness any day now. We will make him immediately available for deposition at Ms. North’s convenience. My client will, of course, revisit our settlement offer.”

“I hope so, Mr. Stone. This court is adjourned.” A sharp rap of his gavel dismissed them.

Jackie silently fumed as Stone crossed the aisle between the lawyers’ tables and smiled. “My settlement offer still stands, but not for long, Jackie. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to let today’s decision sink in. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, not that you look like you’ve had that in months, you’ll come to your senses.”

“I’ll see you in court,” she spat.

The cool smile remained etched on his face. “Fine. Coordinate with my associate on the expert’s deposition. I let the associates handle the depositions, as you well know.” He took a neat step back, turned, and strode out, leaving no time for a retort.

Jackie rummaged through her briefcase for her cell phone to call her secretary and tell her to fire up the coffeepot. Underneath her files, she unearthed a raspberry-coconut Zinger, her life preserver when reality got too real.

Although the soft package was flattened on one end, Jackie imagined scooping out the cream center with her tongue.

No.

A perfectly scrumptious snack cake should not be wasted on a manipulative bastard like Gary Stone.

* * * *

Brandon Marshfield knew how to gracefully handle a twentysomething socialite who became a little too clingy for his tastes, but with this woman, he was at his wit’s end.

His client, Phyllis, pulled a teardrop-shaped bottle of amber-colored liquor out of her tote bag and pushed it across the table to Brandon. “I found this bottle of cognac in the cellar. I thought you might like it. I could never drink it all myself,” she cooed at him.

From one glance at the bottle, Brandon knew it was old and guessed it was expensive. “Really, I can’t.” Brandon nudged the bottle back in her direction. “The tickets to the Kennedy Center you gave me last month were more than generous.”

She countered his nudge with her own. “I insist.”

There was no point in arguing. “Thank you. I’m sure it will be absolutely delightful.”

Rich, widowed, elderly, and lonely, his client insisted on monthly meetings to review her portfolio in spite of the fact that nothing significant had changed. With the fat fee she paid, she deserved his undivided attention.

Did that make him…

A kept man?

He shuddered to shake off that vision.

No, only a gigolo. The thought made him smile. He’d consent to being Phyllis’s gigolo for his cut of her ten-million-dollar portfolio, but he’d rather be Jackie’s slave. Why hadn’t he gotten her number? What if she never called him? How could he find her? He knew she loved carnivals and fought daily cravings for cheap snack cakes, but he hadn’t asked for her last name. They’d shared their fantasy jobs—hers was to be a travel guide in exotic locations—but he had no idea what her real job was. She admitted her greatest fear was going bankrupt like her father had, but he didn’t know even if she lived in Baltimore. How could they have been so open to each other, yet neglected to share any important details like addresses or last names?

He grinned. That night with Jackie played in his head like an extended scene from a chick flick, and while he would never admit it to his best buddy, he loved every minute of it. It was unexpected, spontaneous, exhilarating, and yeah, even romantic, though he made sure that true romance was no longer a part of his life.

All he did now was that fake stuff, typically with a tiny, birdlike socialite with sunny hair and stunning white teeth too big for her mouth. He would buy a girl expensive drinks and dinner at the newest trendy Dupont Circle restaurant, and all she’d do was push it around her plate and titter on about something pithy. He rarely tuned in anymore.

Jackie was everything he told himself he didn’t want: tall, strong, brunette, witty, brilliant, and confident. The way her toned waist curved into those hips and perfectly rounded ass—
that
he wanted. The way she smelled
and tasted
of spicy cinnamon… His cock twitched. He shifted in his seat to give his swelling dick space.

“Mr. Marshfield, is everything all right?” The tiny voice called him back to reality.

Fuck. Hold it together, man.

He cleared his throat and his mind. Thinking of the little old lady across the table ensured that his hard-on would not take on a life of its own. “Yes, yes, of course. I think that covers everything. I believe we have next month’s meeting on the calendar already, so it’s been my pleasure, of course.”

He stood up and flashed a warm smile in the old woman’s direction and took her frail, papery-skinned hands in his. If his mom were still alive, she’d be over sixty. Would her thick chestnut hair have turned gray? Would her eternally freckled and tanned skin be pale and papery? He gave his client’s tiny hand one more squeeze. “If you have any questions, you know where to find me.”

“You bet I do,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Got you on speed dial. You’re the best stockbroker money can buy. And the cutest.” She gave him a tweak on the cheek.

He inwardly groaned but outwardly grinned as he guided her out of the conference room and into the lobby.

A slim and meticulously dressed man hovered at the reception desk.

What was
he
doing here?

“Brandon,” Robert Ashe, Jr. greeted him with an unctuous voice. He moved with a snake’s slither across the lobby toward Brandon, extending his hand in greeting. A bottle of wine dangled from his other hand.

“Rob,” Brandon said flatly, ignoring the outstretched hand. “Just one moment, if you please. I need to see this young lady out the door.”

Brandon eased his client out as quickly as possible, accepting his obligatory hug before turning to face Ashe. “Rob, I thought you were busy with the family investment business up in Baltimore?”

Ashe’s gleaming teeth flashed. Although he possessed a slight physique, Ashe’s ego filled a room. “Does your fraternity brother need a reason to stop by and say hello?”

Ashe always had an ulterior motive for his visits. He must need something.

An introduction?

A woman’s phone number?

A stock tip?

What this time?

“C’mon, how about heading out for some lunch? Or maybe just a drink? I’ve brought you some killer burgundy from the old man’s cellar. It’s at peak. I thought we could catch up.” Ashe smiled charmingly as he held up the wine.

“Sorry, but I’ve got another lunch meeting on my calendar. Maybe you can set up an appointment for later this week.”

He didn’t budge, and his amiable tone turned sour. “I think we should talk. Now.”

Might as well get this over with, or he would be back like a pesky cockroach infestation. “Let’s go to my office.” Brandon moved quickly, his unwanted visitor close on his heels.

He shut the door behind Ashe, who set the wine down on the desk and quickly made himself comfortable in the sleek, black-leather swivel chair in front of the desk. Brandon sat on the edge of his worktable at the opposite end of the room.

Ashe leaned back, crossed his legs, and said, “Jesus, man, you look like a tiger in a cage. Why don’t you sit down in a chair and relax? How the hell have you been? Oh, Dad sends his regards, by the way.”

Brandon finally let his gaze fall directly and coldly on him. “Let’s cut the bullshit. What do you want?”

Ashe yawned. “Always the professional, eh? Well, I have a business proposition for you. Are you familiar with the name James Fitzgerald?”

Brandon leaned forward. “The senator from Wyoming? With the family oil business?”

“That’s the one. He’s a friend of Dad’s, you know. He’s looking for a new investment advisor, and naturally, I thought of you.” A grin curled up one side of Ashe’s mouth.

“What’s the price?” Brandon returned as stoically as possible.

He waved a dismissive hand at Brandon. “A walk in the park. Our company, Ashe Financial Services, is involved in a minor investor dispute in Baltimore. Our expert is in a coma in the ICU. We need someone on short notice to testify as to our investment practices, compliance with fiduciary duties, and such. Dad and I could use your help.”

Brandon shook his head. “I’m no expert witness. I don’t know.” He added up the fees associated with Fitzgerald’s business, though, and they were big.

“It’s a cinch, or so the lawyers tell me.” Ashe once again flicked his wrist as if waving off Brandon’s concerns. “Besides,” Ashe added sternly as he stood up and leaned over, hands planted firmly on the desk, “you owe me. You owe Dad, Brandon.”

The two men locked eyes. Cold stares sliced through the air.

He was right, unfortunately. Brandon did owe them both. For years Brandon had waited for the favor to be called in. Now was payback time.

He swallowed hard. “All right.”

Ashe flashed a victorious smile. He crossed the room and clapped Brandon on the back. “I told Dad we could count on you. Here’s our lawyer’s card. Call him ASAP. He’s expecting you.”

Brandon turned the stiff, buff-colored card over in his hand. The embossed glossy black lettering read: Gary T. Stone, Attorney-at-Law, Fenton & Stone.

Chapter Four

Jackie swung by her office before heading to Stone’s firm for the new expert’s deposition. Where had the last week gone? Her mind drifted to Brandon’s phone number saved in her cell. She’d considered calling him last weekend but restrained herself, afraid that she’d end up spending the entire night and day with him. Maybe there’d be time to call him this afternoon after the deposition. With work tomorrow, she stood a chance of keeping her desires in check. She trudged the last few steps to her third-floor office. The elevator was broken. Again.

The nutty aroma of a fresh pot of coffee hit her when she opened her office door. Her assistant, Marilyn, was poised at her desk, as usual. She wondered if Marilyn had planted a GPS on her briefcase to signal her when Jackie neared the office.

Marilyn handed Jackie a cup of steaming coffee. “Dear, I pulled some information on the new expert and thought it might be of interest to you. It’s on your desk in the green folder.”

Jackie made a beeline for her office, dodging the document boxes lining the hall. Marilyn was a color-coder. Green, not red, was her “high-priority” folder. “Green for go” was what Marilyn always said. She was indispensable but quirky, if not just a tiny bit creepy at times. A chocolate-iced doughnut on a chipped piece of thrift-store china sat centered on top of the green folder.

“You’re a rock star,” Jackie yelled over her shoulder. “Thanks for the doughnut too. You’re a mind reader.” The mind reading was the creepy part.

“You know what they say…” Marilyn stood at Jackie’s door.

Jackie turned to her and raised her coffee mug in salute. “Anticipation is the key to victory,” they both quoted and then giggled at each other. It was Gary Stone’s favorite, and annoyingly overused, saying.

Jackie eyed Marilyn in her trademark St. John’s knit ensemble, flesh-toned pantyhose, and stiletto heels. Fifty years ago, seventeen-year old Marilyn Morris had begun work as the secretary for fledgling attorney John Fenton. When Gary Stone became a name partner at the firm and took over the leadership reins from Fenton, Marilyn became Stone’s secretary. There, she loyally served until one week after Jackie resigned from the firm.

Marilyn had arrived unexpectedly the day Jackie opened her firm and announced she had retired from Fenton & Stone. She’d claimed to be looking for meaningful volunteer work. For the last year, she’d functioned as Jackie’s go-to person, never ceasing to amaze Jackie with her versatility.

Marilyn glanced at her watch and snapped her fingers in the air. “Dearest, you should be going. Take the folder with you.”

“Right. Thanks.” Jackie jammed the remaining half of the doughnut into her mouth, slurped down some coffee, and shoved the green folder into her briefcase.

The walk from her office to Fenton & Stone cleared Jackie’s head. The receptionist greeted Jackie with a hug over the desk she manned. “The deposition is in the Pratt conference room, Jackie. You remember where it is?”

Each conference room at Fenton & Stone bore the name of the major street it overlooked. She’d spent countless nights prepping for trials in the Pratt conference room. “Of course. It’s been long, but not
that
long, although it does seem like forever since I walked out these doors. Life as a solo is definitely different, but good. So how are things here?” Jackie gave her a warm smile, trying her best to sound relaxed even though perspiration threatened to erupt at every crease in her body.

The receptionist shrugged. “Same old BS. But it’s a paycheck, and a pretty good one, I guess. Let me know if you ever need a secretary, though.”

“You bet.” Jackie smiled as broadly as she could to hide the cringing of her gut. How could she afford an employee when she hadn’t paid herself in the last three months? Thank God Marilyn worked gratis. When this case finished, Jackie would give her a huge bonus.

The plush, dove-gray carpet sank underneath Jackie’s heels as she walked down the hallway. Hideous stains didn’t give the carpet a speckled-hen look like in her office. She had foregone tenant improvements in exchange for two months’ free rent. Lean and mean had become her mantra. Her step lightened. She realized she didn’t miss the opulence of these offices. It was time to have some fun and kick some expert ass.